Color My World
by Vareniki
Summary: The Countries use colors to describe aspects of their relationships. All titles are song titles, so credit goes to respective owners.
1. Come on you Reds

Red. The color of my enemy. But it's my color too. The color of passion, fire, and heroes. The color of my passion for him, I guess.

I'm supposed to hate him. I'm supposed to say things like "Better dead than red!" But I can't. I can't bring myself to call the one I love something so mean.

I can see how much it hurts him, those slogans and protests. He's quiet in the meetings now and lets the world call him names. He's so strong though. It's just like when he was under Tartar control. He'll be strong and come out of it a better nation, a better person.

But what he's like now is a lot different than what he was before 1917. He just snapped that day when they overthrew his tsar. Who wouldn't? He was there, you know, when they killed his King. He watched as they shot the little girls and the boy. He told me one night, how he held the famous Anastasia. He had always liked her. He told me how her blood stained his coat red.

Red. The color of war, of blood, of love. The color of Russia. The color of me and my love for Russia.

* * *

><p><em>Yeah, it's America. Yeah, it's America Russia. __Yeah, it's short. _


	2. Colorless

Colorless. That is the last thing I would use to describe my Britain. Oh, now you may think him bland and tasteless but he has the most color of anyone I have ever seen!

I do not speak of those silly things called auras; I speak of character, personality! He claims to be a gentleman, and I have to say, he plays the part with seemingly easy perfection. Mais non. He is the most tactless pirate I have ever met, far worse than Spain ever was. Britain hasn't been pirating in centuries but that lust for adventure still runs through him.

He drinks like a fish. I am one of the few to know he spikes any non alcoholic drink (and the alcoholic ones) with his precious rum. He dances in those techno clubs every Friday night, and while he is the oldest looking man there, he still manages to leave with ten phone numbers. Not that he calls any of them. That luxury is reserved for moi. I am the only one he calls when he is alone, angry, sad, or just horny. And I do not complain. My little lapin is feisty in bed. Or in that supply closet on the fourth floor of the UN building. Or in that Rose Garden at his country house.

He sits in his London row house, or in the country home he built in 1712, his legs crossed gentlemanly, reading a snooty British book full of nothing but empty words. Like that Austin woman. There is no love there! It isn't Hugo's heart breaking _Les Miserables_! But his books are usually full of adventure and bravery. Something my books hardly have.

My Britain can curse a blue streak but he can say the most heartfelt and gentle things. They are always colorful, the things he says when no one else is listening, when it is just he and I. They never cease to melt my heart. The way he smiles awkwardly when we finish, runs his hand through my hair, and says, "I love you, frog." He may be hard and the perfect crusty Englishman, but when we are alone, the curtains are closed, and a fire crackles in the grates, he lets me, welcomes me, to curl against him and listen to him read aloud. He waits until he thinks I am sleeping. He leans over my ear, whispers sweet words and lays a soft kiss to my cheek. I open my eyes and smile up at him playfully. He will always scoff and blush darkly. He always thinks I am asleep. I never am.

Colorless. Ha. Those who say my Britain is colorless clearly have not seen him. His hair is the color of golden wheat waving proudly in a field. His eyes are so green an emerald would be jealous. Ireland certainly is.

Colorless and tasteless are what most people think for my Britain. But I know him far better than anyone alive. I know he is the most beautiful, loving, colorful man in the world.

* * *

><p><em>Yup, it's FrUK. From France's POV. It's also the longest. Isn't France sweet? My headcanon says he may be a horny bastard but he has a huge, loving, kind heart. <em>

_Hope you like it! I think next is Gertalia... Not too sure though. _


	3. Bluest Eyes in Texas

Blue is such a wonderful color. I love blue things. But I am told to hate him so I have to hate blue, too. He is against our ways so I guess blue is too. But his colors are red, white and blue. White is a sad color, it makes me think of snow. Red, of course, is mine. Red is strength. Blue, though, is peace. The color of America's eyes, of his summer skies, of his confidence. Things I can never have.

They do not want me to like blue because blue is him. But I love blue and I love him. Little and inexperienced as he is, he and I are perfect together. Perfect like fire and ice, sunflowers and summer, hamburgers and Coke-a-Cola. Hamburgers and Coke-a-Cola taste like blue because they taste like him.

If only he would become one with me. If he joined me, my blue America, we would be unstoppable. No one could ever take him from me and he would have anything he wanted. I would give him the world. And then I would have all the beautiful blue of his eyes and his love. Red and blue are perfect together, are they not?

* * *

><p><em>Russia's POV with his view on RussiaAmerica. _


	4. Purple Haze

They're so weird, his purple eyes. I mean, beautiful and totally awesome but weird. Sometimes they disturb me, but most of the time, they draw me in.

Like right now.

I don't look away as he traces a finger along my jaw and down my neck. I shudder slightly as his cold finger rests on the pulsing vein.

Smiling, he unbuttons my collar and rests his hand on the bare skin. He doesn't look away either as his hand cools the skin over my collar bone. His eyes search mine, looking for something as he moves his hand away from my neck.

A small whimper escapes me as he slides off my jacket and let it drop to the floor. He looks away for a moment to unbutton the rest of my shirt. I want to see his eyes again, almost more than I want him to touch me. His icy hands stop on my waist as his eyes find mine again.

I want to move, to undress him as smoothly as he undresses me. But those bright violet eyes hold me in place, pushed against a wall, his weight pressing against me.

He tilts his head to the side, watching me with his childish smile. He inches closer to me and removes his hands from my skin.

He gently takes my own hands in his and pulls off my gloves. Still not removing his eyes from mine, he puts my hands to the buttons of his coat. I see something gleaming in his eyes. It's something dark, I know that, but all I really see are those amazing purple eyes.

Feeling like I did the first time I undressed him, I slowly open his coat and push it from his massive shoulders. He is perfect under that heavy coat, I know, but right now, all that matters are his eyes.

As he tenderly pulls me to the couch and whispers "I love you", I can't look away from those unnatural eyes. Those beautiful, huge eyes. That flawless set of purple gems.

I whisper "I love you too, big guy" back and see the beautiful joy from that simple phrase echoed shine in his eyes.

That, seeing him happy, seeing something other than fear and doubt in his eyes, is what matters the most.

* * *

><p><em>America again with another RA. I like those two..._


	5. Green Sleeves

_Green_ is the perfect color for him. It goes well with his eyes, even though blue and green are too close to perfectly please. It brings out the bright yellow of his hair and the smooth paleness of his skin. I'm not talking about light greens or even really England's scary dark hunter green, just Army green. The kind his uniform is colored. That kind of brown, black and green mix. He looks so strong and intimidating in his uniform. Unlike me. I just look cute in mine. Cute little Italy, little adorable Italy. I can't be strong like him. Even when I was stronger and fought Turkey, I was still cute. Even my stupid uniform is cute! It's powder blue! I just can't be strong and muscle-ly like him. I can't be a threat to anyone like he can. I have to rely on mean old Mr. Germany to help me!

But I guess he doesn't mind. He always complains about how he has to come tie my shoe laces, but he does it anyways. He can't mind all that much. He likes being with me. I can make him smile.

Besides, I like being with him too. I love seeing him, all proud and strong in his rich green uniform. That green fits him perfectly. I love how it makes him look bigger and stronger, how it makes his muscles look more impressive. He's so handsome in that uniform. Even though most people think he's scary in it, I run to him. If other people are around, he'll just put his hand on my shoulder and squeeze. A little hard but he doesn't mean to hurt me. Everything is a little harder than it usually is with him. If no one else is around and I run into his arms, he'll wrap his arms around me protectively and hold me. I'll put my short arms around his waist. I don't like that scratchy material as rub my cheek against his broad chest but it suits him. He'll ask me what's wrong in his deep voice but I'll just shake my head and bury my face in the front of his jacket. Nothing is wrong when I'm with him and he's in his uniform.

The perfect, soothing, calming green is the only color that makes me feel safe now. That frightening, dark, military green is the only color can really desrcibe Germany.

* * *

><p><em>Yay, not a Rusame peice! I'm so proud of myself. <em>

_The title is a play on the song, Greensleeves. _


	6. Pretty Brown Eyes

Few people can see them, few have ever have. But if you could, you would know what I know. Italy has the most beautiful brown eyes.

I really have no idea why Italy keeps his eyes closed. It's no wonder he can't do anything by himself. He just can't see. The only time he keeps his eyes open is when a pretty girl, or I, asks him. Mostly when I ask him. By some magic, he can just find the prettiest girl to talk to with his eyes shut. I will never understand Catholics.

But when he does open his eyes voluntarily, I can't look away. They aren't just brown, they're gold too. They gleam with curiosity and what I think is love. I hope it's love. He opens those pretty brown eyes of his as we lay together. As our sweat cools and our breathing returns to normal, he'll open his eyes and smile, watching me happily with those childishly large eyes. He'll keep his eyes open as he rests his head on my chest and sigh contentedly. They won't close again until he falls asleep.

As I think about it, I think there isn't love in his eyes. It's forgiveness, my chance at making something right and happy. I have resigned myself to the fact most countries won't forgive me for my sins but he has. I know he has but I don't understand how or why.

Forgiveness, yes, but I hope there is love too in those beautiful brown eyes of his.

* * *

><p><em>And an other Gertalia, from Germany's POV this time. The next one'll be England on FrUK. <em>


	7. Black is Black

Darkness is all I ever saw when he came to me or when I went to him. Inky black darkness. I couldn't see the details of his room but I know it perfectly. After cleaning up after him, I was more than used to the layout of the furniture, even where the floor creaked and groaned. I avoided those spots like the plague when I would tip-toe to his bed.

The darkness was almost comforting as I would slowly pull the blankets back and climb between the sheets. I always tried to be a silent as possible. He always woke up though. I would always freeze in fear, expecting punishment but he would just slide his huge arms around my body and hold me close.

"My lovely little Latvia." He would whisper softly, his husky voice tried and slurred from sleep. "My perfect little Raivis." I was so grateful he couldn't see me, couldn't see that I was smiling. He would use it against me, the fact I adored him so much.

It might have been pitch black but I knew exactly how to touch him to make him sigh happily. Estonia and Lithuania never approved of my relationship with Russia but I never cared. They said I was too young, too small for him. They never mattered when I was with him. Besides, they could never understand. Yes, he was creepy and scary but he could be kind and gentle. He could wrap me in his huge arms and hide me from the world. I never had to worry or be scared in his arms.

Even in the darkness I wasn't scared when he was there.

* * *

><p><em>Lativia Russia. I wanted to do a creepy pairing for this one. _


	8. Nights in White Satin

He has silk sheets. White silk sheets. Who on Earth has white silk sheets? The stupid fop bought _white_ sheets. He likes the color white, apparently. He thinks it looks clean and pretty. I find it dull and far too hard on the eyes but somehow, he loves it.

He can make it work, from the perfect whiteness of his teeth to his white bedroom walls to his white silk sheets.

It annoys and confuses me that he has always had white teeth. How? I've always had horrible teeth. How does he stay so damn perfect? His skin is practically flawless and milky white. He long golden hair and perfect skin are angelic. He deserves so much more than me.

Ha. Me. I'm nothing but a joke now. Just another country lost to the void of history. But he's making history with Germany now. Germany of all people! But he always comes back and leaps at me. He just throws his arms around me and says how much he missed me. He's always so excited in public places, so happy and cheery. It's rather annoying. But once curled in my bed, he calms down and speaks softly to me. He whispers gently in my ear how much he loves and how beautiful I am to him and if only I could see what he sees. If only I could see what? A former delinquent, dirty mouthed, faux gentleman with messy hair and huge eyebrows?

France. Francis. Francoise. If I could make you see one thing, one little, insignificant thing…

It's only that I love you, frog.

* * *

><p><em>FrUk. I really love saying that. FrUk. it's fun to say. <em>


End file.
